


Pizza Night

by smoulderandbraids



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Cooking, Curtain Fic, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Pizza, Tenderness, domestic filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoulderandbraids/pseuds/smoulderandbraids
Summary: Patrick and David make pizza for date night. 40% pizza making, 40% snark, 20% tender making out.





	Pizza Night

_ Where are you_, David texts. He’s just outside Patrick’s apartment, leaning against the wall and trying to look alluring just in case Patrick is actually around the corner. Friday is their standard date night and Patrick’s running late. Which is David’s job. Frankly he feels a little upstaged.

_ Be there in a few. You let yourself in, right? _

_ Yeah_, David texts back, one handed, while unlocking the door. He used the key Patrick gave him months ago to let himself into the building, so it’s not a lie. It’s the first time he’s used it to open Patrick’s actual apartment though and it feels a little presumptuous. Which is ridiculous, but David can’t help feeling all flustered about it. Patrick’s always there whenever David comes to see him, all welcoming and eager to make use of their privacy. David realizes he’s been conditioned to expect kisses in the doorway of Patrick’s apartment, is missing them now.

He wonders, not for the first time, if small-town sappiness is catching.

He gets himself a glass of water and peruses the contents of Patrick’s fridge. There’s a nice chardonnay, one of David’s favourites from the store, and the usual basics David would expect from someone who has their life together. David is hungry, but Patrick said they’d do pizza tonight and he can wait for pizza.

He hears the front door open and shuts the fridge, turning to stare contemplatively at the living room instead.

“Hey,” Patrick says, shutting the door behind him with his foot. He is carrying many grocery bags, but not a pizza box. David is disappointed and a little betrayed.

“I thought you were getting pizza?”

“Even better, David. I got the ingredients to make pizza.”

David does his best not to visibly grimace. He’s hungry now. Patrick has the reusable Rose Apothecary bags he uses for groceries up on the counter and he’s unpacking what looks like a lot of ingredients. David recognizes various cheeses, some kind of meat, and a bunch of vegetables.

“This just seems like a big undertaking for a Tuesday night.” David says, sidling up to Patrick and kissing him hello, his hands finding Patrick’s shoulders. “And the last time anyone cooked something for me I didn’t pay for, it was jello shots.”

“This is going to be way better than any of the pizza available around here.” Patrick says, taking David’s hands and squeezing them. “And it comes with a sense of accomplishment. Now go wash your hands.”

“Oh so I’m helping you?”

Patrick gives him a look. 

“It’s just that I assume you want this pizza to be edible? You know the only thing I stir is drama.”

“The pizza going to be delicious.” Patrick says, definitively. “I’m going to do the dough and you’re in charge of toppings. Get as creative as you like.” He gestures at the assortment of meats and veggies on the counter. David sees tomatoes and mozzarella and mushrooms and he does start to get a few ideas. He puts away the toppings he has no intention of using tonight in the fridge and drifts over to the sink where Patrick’s recently vacated, watches him pull a large metal bowl covered in plastic wrap from the top shelf of the fridge. He flours up the countertop and his hands and turns out a beautiful floppy sphere of risen dough. 

“You planned this.” David says, drying his hands and pulling two carefully selected aprons from the drawer. He secures his own and slips the other over Patrick’s head, standing close behind him and letting his hands linger at his waist after tying it.

“Of course I planned it. I’m not going to make you subpar pizza,” Patrick says. “I know you watch those Bon Appetit videos. They break the process down pretty well so this should work out.”

David’s watching him shape the dough over his shoulder, only half listening. Patrick is making a rectangle to fit a sheet tray, which David feels is a correct amount of pizza. The dough looks a little hesitant to stretch, like Patrick’s having to put in some muscle to make it to the size and shape it needs to be. There’s something mesmerizing about watching Patrick work it, his sleeves pushed up and his forearms all on display, leaving fingerprint dimples shiny with olive oil in the future crust. 

He thinks about Patrick’s hands and the one and a half massages he’s given David ever. The first was at the store in the back room after they’d just started dating and David had legitimately hurt his shoulder moving boxes. But it was over his shirt and really just a back rub and Patrick had stopped just when it was getting good because David was maybe sighing a little too much for work. The second was better, just a couple weeks ago in Patrick’s apartment, with David stretched out in bed and the good massage oil after a particularly bendy round of sex. Patrick’s hands on him had been heaven, all warm and strong and confidently finding all the places that needed work. 

“That’s a lot of oil,” David observes.

“It’s going to make the crust delicious.” Patrick says, hands still busy. “Besides, you’re the one always telling me to use more lube.”

“Actually, olive oil makes terrible lube. It’s cute you don’t know that. I was dating this chef this one time and I don’t know if I’d call it a kink, but it was definitely a thing for him and it was not that comfortable for anybody. I don’t know how he had any sheets left at all.”

“So this is done.” Patrick says, brightly tapping the now plastic wrap covered sheet tray full of crust, effectively changing the subject. “For the next thirty minutes.”

“Yeah?” David says, “What do you plan on us doing for thirty minutes?”

“Well,” Patrick says, reaching around David to wash the oil and dough residue off his hands. The apartment kitchen is small enough for two people to maneuver in it, but only just. It’s intimate in a way that David is getting used to. When Patrick turns back around he’s right in David’s space. He sets his clean hands on David’s waist.

“I think,” he kisses David’s cheek, once, a tease. “That you should figure out what you’re doing about the toppings.”

He drifts away, going to the fridge and pulling out the wine. 

"This is not where I thought that was going.” David says, watching Patrick uncork the wine and produce actual, real glasses from the cupboard. 

“Maybe it’ll go where you thought it was going after you sort out the toppings.” Patrick says, pouring the wine and handing David a glass anyways, even though he’s done nothing about the toppings yet. The toppings are a necessity for the pizza, and David is starving so he really should get to them and stop ogling his fiance as he’s putting on _ Wasteland Baby! _ . Which is truly mean, because the first time he’d played it in the apartment and David had asked Patrick what album it was, he’d just said _ , mood music _, which was both a) unhelpful and b) not an actual thing people say. Though David can’t deny that it’s an accurate description. 

David washes and chops the spinach and then the tomatoes, making wedges and halving them once and then again until the chunks are the correct size. He sprinkles them with a little salt and basil and oregano, uses the knife to scrape them onto a plate and sets it aside. Patrick’s newly purchased knives are still good and sharp, which makes cutting things precisely easier and David appreciates it. For all of his chef ex-boyfriend’s flaws, David did learn a thing or two about mise en place. He does the mushrooms next, slicing them as evenly as he can manage. 

“Do you want to pre-cook those?” Patrick says, proffering a frying pan and placing it on the stove with another dash of olive oil. 

“Mmmm, yeah,” David says, “Can you watch them for me? I have to prep the cheese.”

“Until they’re black and all dried out, right?” 

David glares at him. “We don’t joke about pizza toppings.”

Patrick grins and looks down at the mushrooms, like he has some kind of private joke about David with them, and David’s heart almost takes his attention away from his stomach. He cuts little discs of mozzarella, setting them in a pile on the plate next to the tomato quarter-wedges and spinach leaves, but not touching. He looks at them, satisfied, and moves to sit on the square of counter between the stove and the fridge that’s clear of food. He takes another sip of his wine. 

"So if I told you I liked pineapple on my pizza…” Patrick says, a smile playing on his lips as he glances at David, before quickly returning his attention to the mushrooms.

“You wouldn’t.” David says, confidently. “You have some taste and I didn’t see a pineapple in those grocery bags.”

“I guess you’ll never know.” Patrick says. “I can’t be giving away all my preferences.” 

“I think I have a pretty good handle on your preferences. There was this place in New York though—I was going home from a thing one night and starving and they were sold out of everything except their spicy chili-infused pineapple slices and it was insanely good. I wonder if they still do it.” 

“David,” Patrick says in his _ this-is-serious-David _voice, looking at him over his shoulder again. “Pineapple on pizza is disgusting.”

“Pineapple is delicious, pizza is delicious, and I’d always rather have pizza than no pizza.”

“To each his own.” Patrick says, taking the now-browned mushrooms off the heat and turning off the burner. He comes to stand between David’s legs against the counter, rests the hand not holding his wine glass on David’s knee. “But I’m not convinced. Maybe for our honeymoon we’ll have to go to New York and taste pizzas.”

“We could, but I don’t think I’m going to be in any condition to fuck you until dawn after eating pizza all day. And I’d rather go somewhere new with you. And I don’t want to share you with pizza.”

Patrick ducks his head like he thinks that’s romantic and takes the last sip of his wine, setting the glass aside. “Where haven’t you been then? That’s honeymoon appropriate?” 

“Montreal, maybe. Or Chicago? I don’t know either of them well, but they have good restaurants and they’re not too far.”

Patrick leans in to press a kiss to David’s cheek. “That could work. I’ll have to do some research.”

“For all your big, guaranteed-to-make-me-cry honeymoon plans?”

“No, that doesn't sound like me at all.”

David pulls back to study Patrick’s face, all wide eyed and earnest in a way that David has learned not to trust quite so quickly. Patrick only looks that innocent when he’s up to something.

“Really? Do I need to point out how you’ve brought me coffee in bed every morning this week?”

“David, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but that’s to make sure you get up.”

“It’s still sweet of you.”

Patrick leans in to kiss him, slow and sure of himself and teasing, drawing David close and switching up the angle at the last moment before committing. He rests one hand on David’s jaw and the other on David’s knee, solid and guiding and the kind of touch David’s been wanting since Patrick walked in the door. He scrambles a little, in a rush to cross his calves behind Patrick’s waist and keep him near.

“Don’t fall.” Patrick says, too amused at his own not-funny joke. David’s about to retort that as if he even could fall, with Patrick’s hand on his thigh like he thinks David’s going to float away, but then Patrick’s kissing the line of his neck, sending sparks right down the length of David’s spine. It’s all David can do to sigh into it and fist his hands into the back of Patrick’s shirt and let the counter hold him up. He kisses Patrick back greedily when he finds his mouth again, pure want replacing the earlier sweetness.

He almost does fall off the counter when a timer sounds, the sharp staccato beep making him jump, starting against the firmness of Patrick’s hands on his hips. “Fuck! How loud did you set that thing?”

“There’s no volume adjuster.” Patrick says, tragically removing one of his hands from David’s hip to silence the timer. He puts it right back though, so David won’t have to murder him. “That means it’s time to put the toppings on and get the pizza into the oven, or the dough will overproof.”

“Fuck.” David says again, with feeling because he doesn’t want to let Patrick go, doesn’t want to get off this counter until they’re both messy and satisfied, even though they’d have to clean everything after because that’s so unsanitary. But he’s also _ starving._

“I know, honey,” Patrick says, stroking the line of David’s thigh gently, so lightly it almost tickles, which should be illegal. “I didn’t think I’d get your legs wrapped around my waist until after dinner. You must be so torn. Me or pizza, real Sophie’s choice for you.”

“I want you and pizza,” David says. “But I’m starving, so pizza first.” He’s choosing to ignore the legs comment because pizza first .

“You sure?” Patrick says, all soft and confident, nuzzling into David’s neck again like that’s fair in any universe.

“You know I don’t fuck well when I’m hungry,” David says.

Patrick hums his agreement into David’s neck, pulls away with a quick nip above his collarbone. David watches him uncover the dough and discard the plastic wrap, thinking idly that if Patrick had just bought him pizza they’d have eaten by now and be well on their way to mutual passion. Patrick could be uncovering him right now instead. But the dough looks pillowy soft and has absorbed all the oil. He watches Patrick drizzle on a little more, considering the way his forearm flexes as he lifts the bottle.

“Your turn,” he says, turning and looking at David expectantly.

David regretfully slides off the counter and makes his way to the carefully prepared toppings and waiting crust. He has to brush close by Patrick to do it and it takes all his resolve not to make it dirty, to get even closer and kiss Patrick like he deserves. He looks like some kind of romcom fantasy already, pleasantly rumpled and a little pink everywhere, his shirt wrinkled from David’s hands.

David adds the mozzarella and spinach and tomatoes, taking his time and placing them carefully for optimal flavour distribution and aesthetics even though he can feel Patrick’s eyes on him. He’s considering the arrangement of the mushrooms when Patrick presses up behind him, crowding him close against the counter and letting his hands rest on David’s hips. 

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick says, into the back of David’s neck, with such easy affection that David does try and go back to placing the mushrooms. It’s challenging though, with Patrick’s hands wandering places he finds difficult to ignore.

“Is this what you call helping?” David asks, trying to focus on the mushrooms and failing miserably.

“I want you to enjoy cooking, Patrick says, like that’s any kind of explanation for this handsy kitchen behaviour. “But you’ve been doing this for six minutes and the pizza needs to get into the oven in the next four or it’ll overproof.”

“I’m enjoying the cooking plenty,” David says, a little testy because how dare Patrick talk about cooking when David can feel the semi he’s pressing against his ass. “But you’re going to distract me and the pizza is going to suffer for it.”

“It looks perfect, it can be ready.” Patrick says, and kisses David’s neck again like that’s going to help anything. Hopeless.

“You’re so hot,” David says. “Like actually, god.”

“That’s the oven,” Patrick says, “I cranked it as high as it would go and there’s ambient heat. You should let me put the pizza in and then maybe take off your sweater. Or more.” He teases a hand under David’s sweater and the T-shirt he has underneath, strokes the bare, secret skin just above David’s hip with his thumb.

“Okay, it’s done, sure.” The sooner the fucking pizza goes in and is cooked and they eat it, the sooner David can strip Patrick down to skin and make him touch him like that again.

Patrick’s hands are gone too quickly and David feels the cloud of heat that escapes when he opens the oven, sliding the pizza in quickly and shutting it. He sets the timer again for twenty minutes. It sounds unbearably long to David’s stomach.

“What now?” David says, watching Patrick pick up the bowl with leftover mushrooms and hand it to him. He starts eating them out of sheer self-preservation, surprised that some light browning made them this delicious. Or maybe they just taste this good because he’s so hungry.

“Now we do dishes so that after we eat we can go to bed.”

David makes a face, but it makes sense so he sets the bowl aside and carefully takes off his sweater, because it is legitimately hot in the apartment and he’s not getting dishwater or pizza anywhere near it. He folds it and sets it over a chair, out of the way. He turns back to find Patrick watching him, not having started dishes in the least.

“I think you have to turn the water on for dishes.” David says, partly to be a jerk and partly because he wonders if Patrick actually forgot, the way he’s looking at him.

Patrick turns the water on and looks at David archly, like the dishes are his responsibility now and Patrick’s not going to start without him.

David sighs and strides over to the sink. He half expects it, but it’s still pleasantly surprising when Patrick pulls him in by his T-shirt for a kiss, bossy about it from the get-go. He keeps a hand on the back of David’s head, fingers tangling in his hair softly, and lets his other hand spread at the small of David’s back, appropriate and gentlemanly and electric when he pushes David’s shirt up to trace patterns into the thin skin there. It’s exactly how David wants to be kissed, undeniable want and a grounding tease, but no desperation to speak of because they both know this is a sure thing. They’re going to go to bed together sooner or later and take each other apart. David knows it, as sure as he knows the steadiness of Patrick’s shoulders under his palms.

He feels Patrick move to turn off the faucet, would be disappointed by the loss of Patrick’s hand at his back, but then he’s pushing David back up against the wall next to the fridge and pressing a thigh between his. He groans when David draws a hand down his chest, making sure to graze his nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt before dipping down to grab Patrick’s ass and urge him closer. He finds Patrick’s mouth again and kisses him soundly, greedily enjoying the way Patrick gasps, his mouth opening a little more when David grinds against him.

Patrick kisses David’s collarbone, punctuating it with a sharp bite before breaking away to flip David around and press him chest first to the wall, settling in firm behind him, an echo of earlier at the counter. He drops a kiss high under David’s ear and works his way down the line of his neck. David feels himself melt into it, all the tension in his muscles sliding away, letting the cool wall and warmth of Patrick at his back support him. He can feel Patrick getting harder against his ass and spreads his legs a little more, rolls his hips back for the friction. Patrick bites the back of his neck in response and David goes shivery all over for a second.

“You know, I want you all the time, David.” Patrick says, quietly. “I think about doing this to you, with you all the time. I think about fucking you all the time. I fucking love feeling you under me.”

David grabs Patrick’s hand and laces their fingers together at his side. He’s not used to being so comfortable being vulnerable like this, has never been comfortable enough to enjoy it properly with other partners. It’s heady and he wants Patrick to fuck him like this badly.

Almost enough to make him forget how hungry he is. But not quite.

“So you’re patient enough to wait all day for pizza dough to rise, but not patient enough to wait until after dinner to fuck me?” David’s voice comes out low and seductive and only a little shaky, almost perfect. He’ll blame the shakiness on the hunger, not on how turned on he is. He can feel Patrick’s breath on his neck as he slowly pulls away, puts a whole inch of space between them.

“No, you’re right. When I fuck you I don’t want it to be on a timetable.” He steps back properly, a whole arm’s length away and David turns around just in time to see him adjust himself through his jeans.

“No?” David says, pushing because Patrick started it and he misses the heavy heat of him against his back, feels lightheaded and needy and too hot everywhere and a little faint with hunger. “You don’t have an itemized list? Eating David out, seven minutes, doggie for four, missionary for five?”

“Is that your plan for the night?” Patrick asks, amused and playing it up, like he wouldn’t be thrilled to do exactly that. 

“Well the last time I ate you out you almost cried,” David says, relishing the words and the memory. Patrick had looked so goddamn pretty, all overwhelmed with pleasure and practically begging David for it. “So I think it’s only right.”

He nearly says due, but Patrick has been trying to impress upon him lately that romantic relationships, _ shouldn’t be transactional in nature, David._ So he figures playing on Patrick’s strapping sense of responsibility will go better.

“I had my own plans for you tonight, but if that’s what you think is right I guess it’s fine.” Patrick says, working a little to keep his voice even, baiting David’s curiosity and not even trying to be subtle about it.

The timer goes off before David can ask him what about his proposed plan is _ fine_, exactly. Or how whatever alternate plan Patrick has is better than _ fine._

Patrick takes the pizza out with a couple dish towels and sets it on the counter and David loses the chip on his shoulder immediately. The pizza looks amazing, with golden edges on the crust and bubbly cheese and smells even better, all rich and savoury. David thinks that maybe having to wait an hour will have been worth it.

“Wow,” he says, intelligently. “You made that.”

“We made it, technically.” Patrick says, turning off the oven and flapping a towel at the steam coming off the pizza. “Go get the plates, please?” 

David does, picking two out of the cabinet and looking in the cutlery drawer where of course there’s a pizza cutter. He loves Patrick, truly. He puts the plates and the pizza cutter on the counter, next to the pizza and admires how Patrick’s a little flushed from the steam. 

“Go ahead.” Patrick says, gesturing to the cutter, like he thinks David’s eyeing him up because he wants him to cut the pizza, and not because he made David a pizza and it smells out of this world and David doesn’t know how anyone manages to look that good in a kitchen.

The pizza feels plush under the cutter and crisp at the crust, the cheese pulling enough that the cutter was definitely necessary. David cuts one large strip, portions it into four squares and pulls two of them onto a plate, leaving the other two for Patrick.

“You don’t have to wait.” Patrick says, collecting his own slices and plate and leaning back against the counter, watching David. 

“I do, though. Pizza burns can be deadly.”

“And here I thought you were trying to be polite.”

David rolls his eyes affectionately, wanders over to the couch and sets his plate on the coffee table while he curls up before grabbing it again. Patrick joins him, sitting close and letting David lean against his side. The visible steam coming from the pizza has dissipated, so David thinks that finally, it is time, and picks up the perfect slice. It’s firm enough in the crust not to be messy and the bottom is golden brown. The first bite is wonderful, the acidity of the tomato balancing the saltiness of the cheese and richness from the olive oil perfectly. David closes his eyes for a second, does his best not to moan. He eats the first slice in record time, doesn’t pause before picking up the second.

“I can’t believe you’re an expert pizza maker and you’ve been holding out on me all this time.” David says, rubbing a socked foot over Patrick’s calf. “This is better than half the Italian restaurants in Toronto.”

“Only half?” Patrick smiles, teasing. “And no, I haven’t been holding out on you. I haven’t made this recipe before.”

“Lies.” David says with feeling, taking a massive bite of the second slice, chewing and swallowing. “This is not the work of a pizza making virgin.”

“It’s a very good recipe,” Patrick says. “We can make it again. You can wear something you don’t mind getting flour on and I’ll show you how to do the dough.”

“I’m putting it in the vows.” David says, only half joking. “Regular pizza nights where I get to watch you pound dough for half an hour and then there’s this at the end of it.”

“I don’t think this is quite the end.” Patrick says, balancing his plate on his lap and draping his non-pizza involved arm around David’s shoulders. “I said I have plans for you.”

Patrick’s fingers are brushing David’s upper arm, flirting with the edge of his sleeve. It’s so distracting.

“Don’t tell me there’s dessert.” David says, before taking the last bite of pizza. On his plate that is. There’s loads more in the pan and David’s already thinking about how good it’s going to be as a midnight snack. He’s still a little hungry after only two slices, but he’s not ravenous anymore and he’s not waiting any longer to get his hands all over his fiance in their bed.

“I guess you could call it that,” Patrick says, moving to put David’s empty plate and his own on the coffee table and pulling David into his lap instead. “Are you gonna be sweet for me?”

David kisses him instead of dignifying that terrible line with a response. And kisses him again because Patrick’s lips under his are soft and inviting and the way his hands are resting on David’s lower back is nothing short of heavenly.

“So I’m going to get up now,” David says, pulling away reluctantly. “And we’re going to pick this up again in bed.”

“Yeah?” Patrick says, “Are you sure? Because you’ve been teasing me all night and I’ve done nothing but make you an excellent dinner.”

“Sure, I’ve been teasing you,” David says, standing and moving to the bed, shedding his clothes briskly and carefully returning them to their correct homes. “That’s what’s been happening here. Okay.”

Patrick gets up and follows him, unbuttoning his shirt and grinning like the absolute liar he is. “I guess I see where you’re coming from. Is it really a tease if I know you’re good for it?

David drops his T-shirt and boxer-briefs in the laundry hamper and pushes the covers to the foot of the bed, snapping the top sheet in annoyance. “Like I’m the tease in this relationship.”

“You’re the one who’s naked. Patrick counters, eyeing him up openly even though his own jeans are open and he’s lost his shirt and socks. If David had any modesty left he’d blush, but he doesn’t and he refuses to give Patrick the satisfaction.

“You’re impossible.” David says, and pulls Patrick down into bed on top of him. “And you’re taking fifty years to get your pants off when you could barely keep them on in the kitchen. I want to see you.” He slides his hands over Patrick’s ass, between his jeans and his underwear and kisses him, makes it as filthy as he can.

Patrick pulls away after a moment, far enough to shove his pants the rest of the way off and onto the floor. “Now who’s impatient?”

“Who the fuck cares?” David says, “C’mere.”

**Author's Note:**

> The specific Hozier song that Patrick puts on and this fic is set to is Movement: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPCKW3bhrKQ
> 
> The pizza recipe/Bon Appetit video Patrick references is this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5bYP2NlAf4 
> 
> The pizza toppings David uses were inspired by the Spinotta pizza by Pizzaiolo (the best cheap pizza chain in Toronto): https://pizzaiolo.ca/orders/gourmet-vegetarian-pizzas/categories
> 
> Thank you as always to tumblr user feelsfictional for betaing and chatficcing.


End file.
